


Morning at sea.

by ariadnes_string



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-13
Updated: 2011-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone’s had one of those mornings when they can’t get out of bed, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning at sea.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Coda for 1.20.

Steve woke to an insistent, pulsing buzz. He rolled his head, trying to jam his ear further into the pillow to escape it, but it went right on buzzing and pulsing.

It was the alarm. A noise he barely recognized because he rarely heard it. Ninety-nine days out of a hundred he woke up before it went off, pushed the button before it had a chance to ring. But Steve believed in preparing for all eventualities, even the remote possibility of sleeping late, so he always set it anyway.

And if it was going off now that meant it was already—he rolled over to look at the clock, and was reminded of another thing he had forgotten. Arm. In a fucking cast. He flopped back onto his back, held the injured limb tight against his body and waited for the wave of pain to subside.

Pills. He hated to give in first thing in the morning, but the hospital had given him some pain meds and they were---in the bathroom. He was pretty sure. He hoisted himself up onto his elbows—something that seemed to be much harder work than should have been—but before he could even swing his feet over the edge of the bed a wave of dizziness hit him, pushing in the corners of his vision and roiling his stomach.

He slumped back onto the pillows. Maybe the best thing to do would be to lie here, wait for the fuzziness to clear, and try again in a minute or two. He fumbled around with his good hand until he managed to shut the alarm off.

The next thing he knew, someone was yelling his name from the bottom of the stairs.

Danny. Picking him up because Danny had this weird thing about Steve driving one-handed. Which was crazy, because Steve drove one-handed all the time. Not to mention that time in Borneo when he drove a jeep down six hours worth of pitted mountain tracks one-handed—keeping the other hand elevated so as to slow the progress of spider venom towards his heart. If he could do that, he could certainly handle the drive to HQ with a broken arm. All it required was getting out of bed first.

“Steve—“ Danny was coming upstairs now. “Steve, are you—“ Danny came to a halt in the doorway of Steve’s room. “—in bed?”

“Hey, Danny,” said Steve, only getting up on one elbow this time before the dizziness hit.

“What’s going on, babe?” Danny’s voice had acquired a cautiousness that implied he was calculating just how big of a shit storm he was going to have to deal with. “You need me to call the doctor?”

“Nah. Just a little slow getting started, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.” Suddenly Danny was next to the bed, then sitting on it. “And I think some of those fish you had me sort through had better color than you do right now.” He wrapped a hand around Steve’s forehead. “They weren’t as clammy, either.”

Danny’s palm was warm. Steve couldn’t help leaning into it a bit. He hadn’t realized until now that on top of everything else he was kind of chilly.

“What’d I tell you about mixing booze and pills, you bozo?” Danny took his hand off Steve’s face—much too soon—and started inspecting his casted arm. “Not too swollen, I guess. Wiggle those fingers.” Steve did. “That hurt?”

“Of course it hurts, it’s broken.” Steve ineffectually tried to yank his arm out of Danny’s grasp. “If you could just get my meds from the bathroom, I’ll be fine.”

“Which meds? These?” Danny lifted the prescription bottle from the bedside table, where it had apparently been all along, and dangled it in front of Steve’s face. “Uh-uh.” He lifted it higher as Steve reached for it. “Did you even eat last night, like I told you to?”

Steve frowned. He’d meant to, after Danny had given him a lift back from the Hilton. But the drag of painkillers and alcohol and exhaustion had been too much for him. In retrospect, he was kind of impressed he’d managed to get his shoes and pants off before faceplanting into the mattress.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” said Danny, and pocketed the pills. “I let you take these on an empty stomach, you're not gonna thank me later. I’ll be right back. And do not try and follow me downstairs.” He turned at the door, like he’d sensed Steve starting to wrestle with the sheets again. “You faint, and I will take pictures of you. Then I will give Kono express permission to post said pictures on her Facebook page. And she, as you know, has a lot of friends.”

“Not gonna faint. I don’t faint,” Steve grumbled. But he stayed put. Danny sounded like he was just about ready to clock Steve one, take pictures of that, and let Kono make up her own captions.

And Danny was back pretty quick, anyway, with a glass of juice and a bowl of crackers.

“This’ll do for a start,” he said. “Eat that like a good boy and I’ll give the happy pills.”

“Thanks, D.” Steve munched a cracker obediently, a little chastened by his own weakness. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Yeah? I’m no expert, but it might have something to falling down a cliff and breaking—excuse me, _shattering_ \--your forearm. Then hauling yourself up again. Spending the evening taking down some lunatic dad in the fucking bunker he’d built for his murderer son. Getting about three hours of sleep and then supervising the booking of said murderer son. And _then_ staying up drinking and flirting like you truly believe a little slurred speech is catnip to the ladies. Or, I dunno, you could just be getting old.”

“It was fun at the time. The flirting, that is—not the getting old.”

“You keep telling yourself that. I’m gonna go see what else I can find for breakfast. And do not move. Pictures, remember? It’s amazing the kind of definition you get on these new iPhones.”

Either Danny cooked really fast, or the pain pills had Steve drifting off again for a while, because he was back with a plate full of eggs and toast in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other far more quickly than seemed possible.

  
“Is this—an omelet?” Steve asked, bemused. “You made me an omelet?”

“Hey. We all have our special emergency skills. Mine just happen to involve a little less gun tape a few more ingredients than yours. And they’re tastier. Go on—“

Steve poked at the eggs. “What’s in it?”

“Just about everything edible in your fridge. Except the pineapple. And the leftover pizza. That I threw away for the good of humanity.”

Steve took a cautious bite. But it was actually good, and suddenly he was ravenous. He put away the eggs in about six mouthfuls, each one pushing the wooziness a little farther back. When he got to the bottom of the stack of toast, though, he glanced up and noticed Danny watching him with a funny look on his face.

“What?” Steve scrubbed at his nose with his good hand, thinking maybe a piece of omelet had ended up there.

“Nothing.” Danny smiled. “Just glad you didn’t go all the way over that cliff.”

And what was Steve supposed to do with that? Sometimes he felt like the force of Danny’s emotions was like meeting an unexpected swell in the open sea. You couldn’t fight that kind of power; you just had to find a way to ride it, to let it cradle you in its strength.

“Me too,” he said, throat closing up a little as he tried to swallow. “Me too.”

“Okay, then—you’re looking a little less fish-belly already. Here.” Danny held out a plastic bag. “Think you’re feeling strong enough to take on the shower, big guy?”

Apparently Danny had made the right call about the food. Steve made it through the shower without either passing out, throwing up or getting his cast wet, thanks to the plastic bag. About ten minutes in, he could actually feel the carbs and protein hitting his system, and by the time he’d wrestled his cast through the sleeve of a clean polo and back into the sling, he felt pretty much like himself again, aside from a dull throb in his arm and an ache at the base of his skull.

Danny was nursing a second cup of coffee, feet up on Steve’s table and the TV tuned to ESPN when Steve came downstairs.

“You good?” he asked, giving Steve a visual once-over. “You’re good. Let’s go.”

But he didn’t move right away, attention held by some elaborate baseball action playing out on the screen.

“Unbelievable.” Danny threw up a hand and then smacked it down on the top of his head. “Unbelievable.”

Steve had no idea whether what had just happened was unbelievably good or unbelievably bad, and Danny seemed to sense this.

“I can’t believe you’ve never watched baseball,” he said.

“I have,” Steve protested. “I went to few games at Annapolis. And, y’know, on TV. In bars.”

“It’s not the same. You gotta see a real team. In a real ballpark.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll tell you what. Next time we get some personal days, I’m taking you to the mainland. L.A. or San Francisco. Maybe we can even see them play the Yankees. I’ll buy you a beer and a hot dog. Whaddaya say?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. It was extravagant. But when had they not been extravagant with each other? Steve had given Danny and Grace a weekend with the dolphins after knowing them for about two days. And usually Steve hated the idea of leaving Hawaii--he'd spent all those years dreaming of coming back, after all. But this? For some reason it sounded kind of nice. A beer and sun-soaked afternoon listening to Danny bitch incomprehensibly about bad calls and missed chances. Watching the leisurely piling on of strikes and hits and runs. Away from everything and everyone they knew here.

“Sure,” Steve said. “Sure.”

 _the end_


End file.
